The Mars Volta The Bedlam in Goliath by: Ed Butler Tue:19-Feb-08 Label: Universal Year: 2008 WB rating 73 out of 100

So, yeah, you may have noticed the presence of a score up there, but it doesn’t really mean anything. Hell, Roman characters barely suffice. Numbers won't work. This is The Mars Volta, purveyors of the most mind-bendingly freaked-out prog rock since Can split up. Attaching a numerical rating to their newest outing, The Bedlam in Goliath would be akin to assessing a bridge's structural integrity by having 37 greased up, obese midgets form a human pyramid. It probably needs a score like ﯤ פּ. It would mean as much.

Ever since Cedric Bixler-Zavala and Omar Rodriguez-Lopez turned to their At the Drive-In cohorts and said something to the effect of "This prog rock band has too much rock and not enough prog!", then proceeded to take their bat, ball and colourful pills and piss off, The Mars Volta have defined 21st century musical excess. On their 2003 debut De-Loused in the Comatorium, they created a concept album based on the inner workings of a friend who fell into a coma after a suicide attempt. Of course, no one could conceivably realise that from listening to the stream-of-consciousness ranting spewing from Bixler-Zavala’s mouth.

The Bedlam in Goliath, while a totally cool title in a growing alumnus of totally cool titles, is ostensibly inspired by spirits contacted by the band after using an Israeli Ouija board to commune with the dead while on tour. Naturally. What that has to do with ‘Goliath’, or ‘Bedlam’, or ‘the’ or ‘in’ for that matter, is anyone’s guess.

Take, for example, this little gem from 'Ilyena': “Can't spot through the lens/To bleed in through your sanctuary/Intention accident/Will lead him through your sanctuary.”

So, clearly the album’s about a Ouija board. Consistent lyrical idiosyncrasies aside, The Bedlam in Goliath, in the warped and twisted universe in which The Mars Volta exist, is stunningly conventional. While Bixler-Zavala’s verbal contortions continue, Rodriguez-Lopez’s virtuosic flights of fancy are controlled, his forays into 64th note machinations are controlled, unleashed only sparingly. The 10-minute long periods of muted noodling and muffled groans have been removed from proceedings.

‘Tourniquet Man’, for example, is an anomaly in the Mars Volta canon. The album title actually appears in the lyrics of the song’s chorus. That the song actually contains a chorus is a surprise in itself, but to hear the words that have been previously read, suggesting that the song is actually about the same thing as the title is on a par with Allen Ginsberg writing an ad jingle. Lead single 'Wax Simulcra' lasts for under three minutes, which, in the universe of this band, is positively a nanosecond, distilling all the vicious rage and padded cell lyrics into a bite-sized blast.

There are moments of insanity, of course. On opener 'Aberinkula', a demonic horn section opens up at the climax, a violent and cathartic counterpoint to Radiohead's 'The National Anthem'. 'Ilyena' opens up with about a minute of furiously distorted vocals, but, oddly enough, less than sixty seconds in, things have reverted to neoclassicism, with song structure, audible – if indecipherable – lyrics, and Latin-influenced rhythms.

And speaking of rhythms, new drummer Thomas Prigden is a revelation – former drummer Jon Theodore was a similarly virtuoso stick slinger, particularly on De-Loused, witness the stunning climax of 'A Drunkship of Lanterns', and all doubts about his skill will be assuaged. But Prigden is a different kettle of sweat and eyeballs (to borrow what is undoubtedly a standard pronoun in the band's circles). While there is still the requisite manic double kick drum antics, there is nothing flashy about Prigden, just furious, driving, metal rhythm. While Rodriguez-Lopez is busy on another opiate-induced fret-mad frenzy, Prigden's driving thuds lend power and stability to every track.

But it's that word – stability – where The Bedlam in Goliath falls down somewhat. While the musical intelligentsia have been praying for five years for The Mars Volta to tone it down, dispense with the free-jazz nuttiness and just rock out. But it seems that, without the space to freak listeners out with twelve minutes of shuddering background noise and keyboard squiggles, The Mars Volta are like Sampson without his hair. The inspiration, the sheer genius that they were capable of in the past is missing.

It seems that, when it comes to The Mars Volta, one must take the good with the bad, the indecipherable with the thrilling, the boredom with the genius virtuosity. Subtract one and you risk jeopardising the other. Of course, they're too good to just produce rubbish, but without the madness, The Mars Volta are incomplete, another rock band with an experimental bent. Or maybe we're getting used to them, and what once was truly odd is now just quirky.

So, listener, prepare to be less bored and confused. And a bit less thrilled and exhilarated.